Blackbird
by yoyo-anarchy
Summary: Shameless El/Sands fluff, featuring Beatles lyrics. Minor sins include a reoccurring curse word and very inexplicit nakedness. "Despite himself, Sands smiles."


**Blackbird**

**Warning/Summary: **Shameless El/Sands fluff, featuring Beatles lyrics. Minor sins include a reoccurring curse word and very inexplicit nakedness.

**A/N:** Yeah, I cracked. I heartily welcome El/Sands to the family of My Favourite Slash Pairings. This is like the uber sugary sweet version of a very skewed reality, and I do apologise for the fluffiness. Perhaps not very realistic, but who knows.

I don't own any of the following characters etc.

* * *

It's been Sands' experience and general impression that, after sex, men usually prefer to sleep. Talking is sometimes somewhat of a necessity, depending on the partner of choice, and usually that's a female thing. Sleep is always high on the list of priorities, followed possibly by more sex, or some other related activity.

El must have missed that memo.

He doesn't do the talking thing a lot, exactly. Hell, when does El ever talk? Sands is the talker, though rarely a post-coital one.

No, El, supposing the offer of more sex is not accepted immediately, makes noise with his God damn guitar.

It's not really as bad as all that. Sands likes listening to it, though he'll never admit it. Used to play once, when he was much younger, and sometimes wonders if he would remember any of the notes, the chords, the melodies. He's sometimes tempted to ask, but never does. It's easier to just listen, because listening is one of the things that he can't fuck up. Hasn't fucked up. Thus far.

He sits propped boneless at the mariachi's back, slick sweat still warm between their bare skin, calmly feeling the vibrations and twitching as his lover plucks contentedly away at his beloved instrument.

Lover. The term is still something strange and uncomfortable on his tongue. In the past, fuckbuddy, or something just as crude and to the point, would have been more fitting. But he can't call it that anymore, not with El, because it's gotten to be more than that. Gotten to mean more than that. Christ, he's spent every waking moment or just about with the man for the past year. Lives through him. Eats, walks, sleeps, survives through him. Without El, he'd be some blind beggar on the streets, being led around by the Chiclet kid, supposing he had enough cash (and luck) to sustain that lifestyle.

And they don't just fuck anymore. It's not about that quick release thing, quick gratification, the basic human need. They even- what do the romantic idiots call it? Make love? Whatever.

He gave himself over long ago. What need was there for him to hang on? He didn't need it, didn't want it anymore. Skinny-ass, pale, blind, fallen gringo. Whatever was left, it was all for El. Who gathered it up as his own, happily. What stared out as hard, fast rumbles against hotel walls gradually turned into something comfortable, familiar, and, God help him, he loves it. He needs it.

And maybe he doesn't necessarily _love_ El. He doesn't think he knows what love is, really. It's something reserved for the good people. The people that don't murder waitresses, and deal with corrupt men and women. Certainly not for him. Love? He tells himself no, and it doesn't matter. Maybe partner is a better term, though even that would have to be taken in a less-than-conventional manor. They're business partners too, in a sense, so it could fit.

The mariachi's song turns into something less flamenco and more distinctly contemporary, and yet not so, as he quirks up a lip, recognising the song as an old Beatles tune. He has vague memories of hearing it back _then_; back when he was still recently maimed, healing and angry, drifting in and out of compliancy with the other man. Back then, he thought El chose it to be a sadistic fucker. A proof of ownership kinda deal.

_"Take these sunken eyes and learn to see_

_all your life_

_you were only waiting for this moment to be free."_

Maybe he did. It's too sentimental and gooey for them. Too 'flowers and honey'. He's a blind bastard, not some poetic little song point. Frankly it would be embarrassing if it wasn't some kind of dig at him. He thinks El may have just latched onto the imagery, and chosen to associate it with him. Easy association to make, sure. But he isn't ever going to read too much into the saccharine lyrics. They're just pretty words that rhyme, and get strung together with the floating guitar notes.

"_Blackbird fly, blackbird fly  
into the light of the dark black night."_

He smirks, sighing. Even El isn't that much of a limpdick. Can't be. Stupid song. Stupid guitar. Stupid mariachi.

Because he would have to be, to have taken in Sands.

But, he supposes, stupid and crazy aren't really all that different after all, and between the two of them, maybe they do make a good pair. They haven't killed each other yet. And well, that has to be a plus.

He turns lazily and props his chin upon El's warm, bare shoulder; listening as the twanging fades into nothing, and a faint rustling of hair precedes a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Despite himself, Sands smiles.


End file.
